


out of spite

by youcouldmakealife



Series: between the teeth [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dude, I’m pretty sure Chaps is out for your blood,” Benson says, through laughter.</p>
<p>David takes a longer sip of beer. No one’s asking him anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	out of spite

It’s out of his system. That’s what David tells himself whenever he’s overwhelmed by self-loathing, disgusted that he was just like everyone else, swooning at Jake Lourdes’ fucking feet. It’s what he tells himself when he jerks off in the shower, determinedly trying to think about anything other than the wet heat of Lourdes’ mouth, the way the muscles of his thigh jumped under David’s hand, the salt-bitter taste of him on his tongue. It happened, and it won’t happen again, because it’s out of his system. 

It’s easier to push things aside with Lourdes slumping, his whole first season a glut of goals and then dry spells, so unreliable it’s a marvel that people are talking about him like _he’s_ a marvel. He has pretty nights, he has pretty weeks, and then he sinks back down into mediocrity, adds nothing to the board other than a couple shots, maybe, a couple hits, an unchanging points total. David’s consistent, David hasn’t gone more than two games this season without a point, and he may not have those flashy nights that Lourdes does, but at least he’s still producing, and that means his points are nudging closer to Lourdes’ by the game, the two of them almost neck and neck for points, until David can practically taste metal against his lips, the Calder so close he could reach out and touch it.

It’s out of his system, and the only place he’s going to see Lourdes is on the ice, one more game between them this season, one more chance to even the score, for the Isles and for David, and then he won’t have to see him until the Awards, until he’s snatching that trophy from under his entitled, smirking face.

When Florida comes for their final bout of the season, the Islanders are busy licking their wounds after a long, brutal trip to the West Coast. Metaphorically, because only they managed to pull three points out of the extended mess, but physically too, because the Kings make up for any lack of skill they have by trying to take out their opponents at the knees. Literally, in Burgess’s case, and he’s going to sit out the rest of the season on the IR, which is the last thing they need.

Playing Florida is a relief after their sojourn, and they win it, ugly, nothing any of them are going to be bragging about, but a chance to even the score against the Panthers and two desperately needed points if they even want to nudge at contention. The atmosphere in the room after isn’t victory but a fundamental sense of relief, Kurmazov wandering around to share a few quiet words with individual players, everyone taking a deep breath for the first time since they left New York to get their asses kicked.

David lets the relief settle in him while he showers the sweat off, leaning his forehead against cool tile. It was nothing like the rout they handed Florida earlier in the season, but points are the only thing that matter, and they’re square now.

No one’s really talking about going for victory drinks, the West Coast trip has left them all drained, the family guys ducking out as early as they can, the single guys talking about a Madden marathon the next day. Eisler’s loudly talking about sleeping in with a voice full of longing. No one includes David in the Madden talk, which is fine, because he’s not much for video games, and he’ll use the time off tomorrow to get a little strength training in, something he doubts anyone else would want to do, unless it’s training their thumbs to better work a joystick. 

Benson’s started making noises about going out, but the locker room’s half cleared out, and David ducks out as well, stops short when he catches Lourdes leaning against the far wall, hair damp, but put together otherwise, even if his tie’s hanging crooked.

Lourdes grins when he meets David’s eye, pushes off the wall, and David has to wonder if the Islanders staff are all incompetent, letting an opposing player lurk around the home dressing room. And whether Lourdes is out of his mind, making a habit of doing so, especially after he got his licks in against Eisler, still inside the room, in a scuffle in front of the Panthers net. 

“What are you doing here?” David hisses, voice low so he doesn’t alert the room, because he doesn’t particularly want anyone else to come out and find Lourdes there, though it’d serve Lourdes right if Eisler came out and finish what he started.

Lourdes shrugs, still smiling, and he looks stupid, no one who just lost a game should be grinning like he is. He looks like he’s been hit in the _head_. David bites his tongue, looks away, immediately penitent for even having the thought, because he’s heard enough talks about how concussions aren’t jokes to have the guilt hit him like a reflex. 

“Hi to you too,” Lourdes says. 

“Hi,” David says flatly. “What are you doing here?”

Lourdes shrugs, takes another step forward until he’s in to David’s space, too close, closer than David wants anyone to get, except on the ice, and then only because it’s a sign of celebration. Or a hit. Lourdes has had David’s dick in his mouth, but he’s also tried to smear David against the boards more than once, so it’s not like David’s insane to tense. This close, the three inches Lourdes has on him, the thirty pounds, they’re more obvious than they are when they’re in skates, and David resents that he has to look up in order to meet Lourdes’ eyes. 

“I was wondering--” Lourdes starts.

“Jake motherfucking Lourdes!”, David hears from behind him, turns to find Taylor Benson, of fucking course. One obnoxious American wasn’t enough, clearly. 

“Tay!”, Lourdes says, pulls Benson into something over complicated, involving fist bumps and chest bumps and who knows what else. 

“We’re heading out for drinks,” Benson says. “Uh, victory drinks, but hell, I’ll take first round, throw the loser a couple.”

“Generous of you,” Lourdes says, looking back at David for no reason he can ascertain.

“C’mon, Lourdy,” Benson says. “Promise we’ll be nice enough.”

David’s jaw clenches, hard. Benson and co. haven’t invited him for shit, not once, and it’s not like he cares, because they’ll be knocked right down to the minors before David blinks, but it’s one thing not to invite your teammate. It’s another fucking thing to invite an opponent.

“I don’t know,” Lourdes says, still looking over at David. “We’ve got an early flight.”

“You too, Chaps,” Benson says. “We’ll even sneak you a few.”

No one in this fucking huddle is twenty-one. David’s the youngest, maybe, but none of them is legal. It’s probably that, Benson looking sly and smug, offering David favours like he’s above him, that makes David snap, say “Sure,” which, pleasingly, makes Benson look surprised. Lourdes too, but he recovers quickly, clapping a hand on Benson’s shoulder. “Lead the way, buddy,” he says, and Benson cuts a path, everyone following, David’s teeth still stuck in grit. 

There’s five of them, Lourdes, David, Benson, and two more of the recent call-ups, who’ve been partaking way too much during the few victories to _stay_ up, in David’s opinion, not that anyone asks. They split up for the ride over, Benson sticking his head in the cab to give the cab driver directions once David made it clear he has no idea where they were going, and the drive into Manhattan feels like it takes forever, Lourdes’ knee knocking against David’s whenever they take a turn, and even when they don’t. David would tuck himself in more if he could, but that’d show it was bothering him, so instead he just looks out the window while Lourdes makes cheerful conversation with the cab driver, who’s a Devils fan and thus beneath David’s attention.

“You’ve got a fake, right?” Lourdes asks, when they’re in the neighbourhood, and David cuts his eyes pointedly to the cab driver, though he doesn’t seem to care much. 

“No,” David says shortly.

“Hope this place doesn’t card, then,” Lourdes says, and David rolls his eyes, because of course Lourdes has a fake ID. David is the opposite of surprised.

“Whatever,” David says. “I didn’t want to come out anyway.”

“We could just go to yours?” Lourdes says, and David looks at him sharply, tries to find a hint of teasing, mockery, but Lourdes just looks earnest, with a hint of dirty that David emphatically hopes the cab driver isn’t picking up.

“No,” David says, short. “No, I’m doing this.”

“Okay,” Lourdes says. “Cool.” He sounds placating, and David just grits his jaw again, looks back out the window.

When they get there, David jumps to pay first, not willing to let Lourdes pay a second time. The place looks grimy, like a typical dive, the type of place David never sets foot in. When he gets wrangled out to drinks, it’s usually by the older guys, the ones he feels guilty turning down, and it’s nicer places, ones that would card if he wasn’t with half the roster of a sports team, but the second David steps in here he knows he’s not going to get carded--not because he’s an Islander, but because they don’t give a shit whether he’s underage.

Benson, Romano and Samuels are already settled down in a booth near the back, and David just has time to slide in, Lourdes boxing him into a corner, before the bartender’s putting three pitchers on the table. Two are obviously beer, one light, one dark, and then there’s another, smaller, that just looks like orange juice.

“We didn’t know what you wanted, Chaps,” Romano says, smiling with teeth. “But we figured even you couldn’t hate screwdrivers.”

David opens his mouth, to say what, he doesn’t even know, before Lourdes cuts him off.

“Awesome, I love screwdrivers,” he says, leaning over David, a hot line down his side, to pull the pitcher closer. 

Romano blinks.

“I’m fine with beer, thanks,” David says, quiet, and Romano rolls his eyes, but pours everyone their drinks, biting his lip in concentration while he pours, glass tilted, like it’s a fine art to pour a fucking drink, and David gets a pint of beer in front of him in the end.

“Do you think I could just stick a straw in this?” Lourdes asks. “Maybe they have some of the cool twirly ones.”

“Dude, that’s like, double strength,” Benson says, hasty. “Maybe stick with beer.”

“I’m not a lightweight,” Lourdes says, but doesn’t argue when Romano pours him a pint as well, leans back into the booth, knee knocking into David’s under the table, accidental seeming, though he doesn’t move it after, and his thigh presses warm against David’s. David feels his face heat, embarrassment and some anger, and he looks away from Lourdes, the line of his jaw as he swallows, and over at Benson, who’s looking back at him, frank, a little mean. 

“Didn’t know you and Chaps were friends,” Benson says. 

“Didn’t know Chaps had friends,” Romano mutters, half under his breath but still clearly audible, and Samuels snorts.

“Yup,” Lourdes says, wraps an arm around David’s shoulder, which David doesn’t flinch at only because it’d prove the assholes right. He squeezes David’s shoulder, and shows no sign of dropping his arm, so David’s bracketed by him, the line of his thigh, his arm tucked over him, sleeves rolled up at the elbows, watch digging in, a little, to David’s shoulder. David wants to shrug it off, but he doesn’t do that either. “We figure the media shit about us being enemies is stupid, so.”

David takes a long sip of beer.

“Dude, I’m pretty sure Chaps is out for your blood,” Benson says, through laughter.

David takes a longer sip of beer. No one’s asking him anyway.

“Are you sure I can’t just stick a straw in this?” Lourdes asks, and when the conversation devolves into chirping Lourdes for shirking beer, David’s never been more grateful to him in his life. Which still means he’s more pissed than not, but Lourdes is still all warmth against him, his thumb nudging David’s pulse, and David’s human, despite all the chirps he gets saying otherwise, so all he can think about is how Lourdes’ mouth felt around him, the way his hair fell in his eyes, how badly David wanted to push it out of the way, so he could see. He didn’t, though.

They don’t get back on David--mostly they act like he isn’t there, asking Lourdes about Florida, Benson and Lourdes trading laughing stories about shit they pulled at US Development Camp. The only real attention paid to him is Romano refilling his glass practically every time he takes a sip, asking, faux-polite, if the beer’s not to his taste when he drinks slower than everyone else, who are putting it back like it’s nothing. Romano and Lourdes, who keeps trying to pull him into the conversation, like it isn’t obvious that no one, David included, wants David in it, and who’s dropped his arm from David’s shoulder, but left it between them on the booth, thumb brushing the outside of David’s knee, distractedly, once in awhile, until David can’t focus on anything else, until he couldn’t focus on the conversation if he wanted to, cheeks flushed, hard in his pants. Romano asks if he’s had too much, and David’s next beer goes down like silk. 

David’s three beers in to everyone else’s four when a group of girls comes in, pretty enough, and Romano nudges Benson’s side. “Think we need another round,” he says, even though there’s still more than enough on the table.

“Don’t look at me,” Benson says. “You know I’ve got a girlfriend, dude.”

“So be a decent wingman for once,” Romano says, and Benson rolls his eyes but slides out of the booth, Samuels following.

“Coming, Jake?” Benson asks. “Chaps can hold down the table, he’s not doing anything else.”

“Nah,” Lourdes says. “Wouldn’t want to cramp your style.”

“Ladykiller Lourdes?” Benson asks sceptically. 

“I mean, if you think you can handle the competition...” Lourdes says, raising his eyebrows, and Benson snorts. 

“Suit yourself, man,” he says, ruffling Lourdes’ hair, which he just takes with a smile, and leading the way over to the girls at the bar. 

“Hey,” Lourdes says. “You want to get out of here?”

David gives him a flat look, which just makes Lourdes laugh. 

“I mean with me,” Lourdes says. 

“You want to come over,” David says, less of a guess and more of a statement, because the hand nudging David’s leg hadn’t been subtle, and Lourdes has thrown away even the last bit of subtlety, has his hand on David’s knee, under the table, at least, but not exactly something David can ignore. 

Lourdes laughs again. David’s not sure what makes him laugh, but it seems like everything does, so he’s sure it’s nothing particularly funny. “Yeah, dude,” he says. “I want to come over.”

It’s a bad idea. It’s a fucking stupid idea, and the whole point of the last time was getting it out of his system, at least in hindsight, but that twist of anger and lust is still running through his veins. It’s a bad idea, but David’s had three beers, Lourdes’ hands on him, and the inane chatter of assholes in his ears all night, and if he turns Lourdes down, goes home tipsy and smelling like him, he’ll probably like himself better in the morning, but he’ll hate himself all through the night.

“Okay,” David says.

“Okay,” Lourdes echoes, grinning. “Okay, lemme just tell them we’re heading out and give them some cash, can you catch us a cab?”

David nods, gathers his coat. He wonders, after a minute, if Lourdes is just going to stick around inside with guys that seem a little more like him, maybe crack them up with how fucking easy David is for him, so that the jibes in practice can strike home better than Samuels’ stupid robot voice, but Lourdes comes out after a couple more minutes. “Sorry,” he says. “Taylor talks a lot.”

“Yes,” David says, which makes Lourdes laugh _again_. 

*

They’re quiet in the cab, other than Lourdes beating out some abstracted, off-rhythm pattern on his thigh that makes David’s teeth clench, before Lourdes says, “Do they always treat you like that?”

“Pretty much,” David says.

“That’s fucked up,” Lourdes says. “They’re supposed to be _team_.”

David shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

“Okay, _that’s_ fucked up,” Lourdes says.

“It is what it is,” David says, and Lourdes looks like he’s going to say something, but doesn’t, returns to tapping out his little beat on his thigh until David can’t take it, reaches out to still him. Lourdes does, and when David takes his hand away, he doesn’t start again, though he’s watching David hard, scrutiny that David’s more than used to, but is never going to like.

It’s not that far to David’s place, and David beats Lourdes to the fare. Lourdes stands too close to him in the elevator, arm nudging David’s shoulder. David’s been half-hard since the bar, Lourdes’ hands on him while Benson and Lourdes went on about some epic prank pulled on their coach, of all people, Lourdes in his space like it was his right, like David let anyone in it, and David’s hyperaware of everywhere they’re touching now, of everywhere they’ve touched tonight, his body lit up, leaning in to Lourdes’ touch before he can even think to do otherwise.

Lourdes is almost plastered against him by the time David’s unlocking his door, and it should be claustrophobic but it isn’t, the way he’s boxing David in, nudging David through the door when it’s finally open. David turns around once they’re inside. Lourdes has the shadow of a bruise against his jaw, and it could be from a fight, an errant stick, could be someone’s mouth leaving marks against his skin. David doesn’t care. He’s pissed still, less at Lourdes, since he was the least of it, than the whole fucking night, win excepted, and he’s heard guys talk in the room about needing to fight or to fuck, but he’s never understood it until now, caught between the urges. 

He settles for the latter, but not by much, drops to his knees in his goddamn hallway like the worst kind of easy, because he wants to get off, he wants to get Lourdes off, but he wants it to _hurt_ , maybe not in the obvious ways, but he wants to leave Lourdes overwhelmed, so he can’t laugh at nothing, so he doesn’t have some smart reply always on his tongue, like it’s fucking _easy_. He wants to be better than Lourdes, and if he’s better on his knees, he’ll fucking take it.

“Wow, okay,” Lourdes says, kind of dim, helping David with his belt. David’s knees are already starting to strain, porn did not accurately portray how terrible hardwood would be on joints, but David refuses to get up, take it somewhere easier, not with Lourdes’ hands already unsteady on his belt, cock flushed pink at the tip once he manages to get his pants and his briefs down around his thighs, like he’s been turned on as long as David has, like he’d chatted about Juniors bullshit with his dick hard in his pants. 

David hasn’t done this much, or at all, except on Lourdes’ bed, but he still knows this is sloppy, his hand meeting his mouth, slick, too much spit, the whole thing inelegant, embarrassing, but Lourdes’ thighs are shaking hard enough that David can feel the tremble without touching them, like he can barely stay standing, one palm braced against David’s wall like he needs something to hold himself up, and there’s something supremely satisfying in that, to hear Lourdes’ unsteady inhale exhale, to have Lourdes come bitter on his tongue, fast, embarrassingly fast, even, his breath hitching into a cut off moan.

David’s barely swallowed before Lourdes is hitting the ground in front of him, impact on the knees that makes David wince sympathetically despite himself, his own knees stiff already. His hands aren’t steady on David’s zipper, but they do the job, and he gets his hand in David’s pants, his tongue in David’s mouth, making a noise against him like he likes the taste of himself on David’s tongue.

David’s practically on a hair-trigger, he’s been ramped up half the night and he got off too much on sucking Lourdes off, already slick at the tip and leaking over Lourdes’ hand, but that makes it an easy slide, Lourdes jerking him off fast and hard, nothing fancy, but exactly how David needs it, and it’s all David can do to avoid biting his tongue (and Lourdes’) when he comes in Lourdes’ fist.

Lourdes doesn’t pull back right away, just breathes, still shaky, against David’s mouth, before he finally pulls his hand out of David’s pants, puts a couple inches between them. David looks at him, his hair a mess despite the fact that David never got his hands in it, his pupils blown wide so that it’s even harder to tell whether his eyes are blue or green, until David gets self-conscious about looking, about Lourdes in his apartment at all. He wonders how you’re supposed to kick someone out when they’re on their knees in your front hall, when you didn’t even make it into the apartment proper. At Lourdes’ place he could just book it, but Lourdes is making no motions for movement, beyond that first step, until he looks at his hands, nose wrinkling, laughing softly.

“Bathroom?” Lourdes asks, waves his right hand, which is covered in David’s come and explanation enough.

“Second door on the right,” David says, and Lourdes gets up, hitching his pants back up around his hips with his left hand. David tries to right himself, tucking his shirt back into his pants, running his hands through his hair, and makes it as far as the living room, listening to the sound of the sink, muted, and wondering what he’s supposed to say, what you’re supposed to say after you suck someone off inches from your front door. If there’s etiquette for this, he’s never learned it.

Lourdes comes out of the bathroom, his tie gone, tucked in his pocket, maybe, his shoes squeaking against David’s floor, which. He never took his shoes off, which is no surprise, considering he never got his pants past his knees, but it just hammers it home. How easy David is. He’s never been easy in his life, he’s been called difficult more times than he can count, and Lourdes is the last person he wants to be easy for.

“Hey,” Lourdes says, smiles at him, no teeth this time, close mouthed, and he’s got a dimple in one cheek that David’s never noticed before.

David waves one hand, internally wincing at how awkward that seems.

“I wasn’t bullshitting earlier,” Lourdes says. “We’ve got an early flight out to Chicago.”

“Okay?” David says.

“I’ve probably blown curfew, but,” Lourdes says, shrugs a shoulder. “I should get back before that’s for sure.”

“Yeah,” David says. He’s reminded of his own bullshit excuse about curfew when he was down in Florida, the way he’d had to beg Kurmazov to come down and pay the cabbie for him, flushed with shame, even when Kurmazov never mentioned it after, rolled his eyes at David when he paid him back the next day but acted like it was nothing, even when David was sure he must’ve just _known_. Known what, David couldn’t imagine, but every scenario was worse than the one before, the worst, of course, being Kurmazov knowing the truth.

Lourdes comes up to him, shoes on his living room carpet. David manages not to flinch, or to look down pointedly at his own socked feet, but it’s a struggle. “I’ll see you,” Lourdes says, “good luck against the Rangers.”

“Thanks,” David says, automatic, and Lourdes leans down, mouth against David’s. He pulls back before David can do more than register the kiss.

“Bye,” Lourdes says, and David echoes as Lourdes is heading through his front door. David stays where he is, looking at the slight imprint of Lourdes’ shoes on his carpet, trying to discern if he’s left dirt behind. Wonders why Lourdes bowing out with some bullshit excuse makes him feel blank like this instead of relieved. It’s no surprise Lourdes is full of shit. David has had him pegged from the start. 

David nudges his toe against the flattened threads, trying to put them back to rights, before he goes to lock the door behind Lourdes.

**Author's Note:**

> I fudged scheduling here (IE non-division sharing teams playing one another four times in a season), but, y'know, narrative requirements.


End file.
